Born of Woman (79 page)

‘The worst roads, maybe, but not the worst weather—not by any means. The climate can be merciless up here. I've known people buried in the snow. Even local folk who know their way around.'

‘I'm sorry, but I've got to get to Newcastle. I can't turn back—not now. Can't face that stretch of road again—if you can call it road.'

Lyn knew those can'ts. He used the word himself. Can'ts were close to panic. Edward had been tense and jumpy every inch of the journey, driving from the passenger-seat, braking before
he
did, warning him of hazards he could see all too well himself. Yet insisted on driving on. Lyn knew they ought to stop, but if Edward were so pig-headed, why should he care? He had lost his house, his future, so why not risk his life as well? It was almost a relief to do battle with the roads, take his feelings out on wheel and gear-stick rather than sit passive on his own and stare out at the void.

He had felt a sort of crazed exhilaration at being out at all, when all cautious folk were barricaded safe indoors. He was the only man left in the world—Edward hardly counted, huddled there chewing at the fingers of his gloves. There was some hellbent elation in the skittering wheels, the drunken snowflakes whipping against the windscreen, the sudden bombardments of snow cascading down from overhanging branches as the car lurched and skidded under them. It was damned cold, bloody dangerous, but at least the weather was in sympathy, howling with him for his lost and plundered homeland, paying Edward back by harrassing him with blizzard and black ice. But now it had fucked him up as well, brought him to a standstill.

He wound the window down, shouted back to Edward ‘Right—start pushing now. Try and keep the back straight. I'll take it very slowly in second gear, OK?'

‘OK.' Edward's voice was shredded by the wind.

The car strained against the hill. The snow was not too deep as yet, but fresh snow had fallen on to old, leaving the roads like ice-rinks. The Morris whined in protest, wheels slithering and spinning. Edward was sliding around himself, suddenly lost his balance and went slap down in the snow. Lyn jammed the handbrake on, stuck his head out of the window.

‘Are you all right?'

‘I … er … think so.' Edward floundered up, shaking snow from his coat, checking his hands for grazes.

‘You'd better get back in, or you'll break your bloody neck. I think I can manage now.'

Edward hobbled in beside him, panting and out of breath, snow still fringing his trousers.

Lyn pressed his foot on the accelerator. The wheels spun uselessly. ‘Blast,' he muttered, tried again.

Edward was fidgeting and fretting, turning round, peering out. ‘If you can't go up, why not reverse back and take a run at it?'

‘OK, OK. Just be patient, can't you?'

Edward drove a limousine on well-shod city roads where snow would be as miraculous as manna. Even the taxi he'd turned up in had been a bloody great Mercedes. What did he know of ancient fourth-hand cars or force nine gales? He wrenched the gear-stick into reverse, let the car run back a little. The mirror showed him only snow on snow. His headlights lit up a tiny snow-bound sanctuary around him, then blinded themselves in the darker world beyond.

The car was losing speed now, still creeping backwards, but beginning to jib and shudder as the road curved up behind it in a second hill. The wheels had lost their grip, were sliding out of control again.

‘Get out!' Lyn ordered. ‘We need some grit for the wheels. Damn—I should have brought a shovel.' He should have brought a lot of things—food, rugs, booze, a proper tool-kit. Edward had suggested taking the whisky with them, packing up a picnic of the bread and cheese, making sure they were well prepared. A proper little Baden-Powell. His own mind had been elsewhere.

‘You get in the car,' he had said. ‘I'll bring all the gear.' He had turned back to the house, filched one last look at it, found himself fighting off the tears. Bloody fool—blubbing over a pile of stones he had spent thirty years trying to get shot of. He'd been fumbling for a handkerchief instead of searching for a shovel, had forgotten food and drink. Or
was
it just forgetting? It was almost as if he were ill-prepared on purpose, making things as difficult for Edward as they could be—a sort of trial by ordeal in which the alien must fight for his house and win, prove himself against every hitch and hazard.

There was a pile of grit swelling on the roadside, like an abcess frozen hard beneath its bandaging of snow. Lyn kicked at it with his boot, hacked and rammed with the crank-handle, using the whole force of his body. Even so, he dislodged only a few handfuls which he carried like diamonds to the car and scattered round the wheels. He clambered into the driving seat, rivulets of melting snow trickling down his neck from his soaked and straggly hair. His hands were so numb, they felt large and clumsy like the paws of some extinct and cumbersome animal.

He slipped the handbrake off and put the car in gear, made another run at the hill. So long as they moved at all, Lyn felt power. He was Force, Movement, Plan, while Edward was only ballast slumped scared and inert beside him. The last two hours of driving had needed all his skills—blind corners, treacherous surfaces, twisting dipping roads. Edward would have been defeated long ago. He was defeated now himself. The wheels were slipping again, the car sliding out of control. He came to a stop only a few yards past his previous resting-place, trapped between a hill in front and a hill behind. There was nothing he could do now but switch the engine off and wait for daylight or the snow to stop. He could hardly see at all. Snowflakes were slamming at the windows, paralysing the flailing windscreen wipers. He leaned forward, cut the ignition. Silence flooded over them—choking, menacing. Neither man disturbed it. Only the wind made rude and spiteful conversation, whining round the car.

‘Surely we ought to go and get some help?' Edward muttered, at last. His voice sounded scared and puny, as if the snow had muffled it.

‘Where from, for God's sake?'

‘There must be a house nearby. Or a farm, or …'

‘It's crazy to get out. With snow like this, you can lose all sense of direction. Landmarks simply disappear. Only last year, a shepherd died. He was walking home from Alwinton—knew every inch of the land—but still managed to stray off the road. They found him a week later, buried in a snow-drift.' Lyn switched his lights off. Darkness closed around them, as if in mourning for the buried shepherd. He could feel Edward's fear stretching out towards him like a clammy hand.

‘Can't we have a bit of light?'

Lyn switched on just the sidelights, to save the battery. Their beam was so weak, it hardly showed at all. All he could see was blurred and spinning snowflakes whirling into nothingness.

‘It's damn hard on the shepherds. Weather like this makes their job a nightmare. I've seen them digging sheep out of ten or twelve feet of snow. The poor crazed creatures are so wild with hunger, sometimes, they tear at their own wool to try and lick the grease from it. When they're rescued, they look as if they're half bald, with bare patches on their sides—if they're still alive at all.'

Edward was still fidgeting. ‘We can't just
sit
here. We're stuck in a dip with the wind blowing straight towards us. The car could be covered after several hours. We've nothing to eat or drink, nothing to …'

‘It's worse outside,' said Lyn. Snow was clinging to the windows, blinding them like shutters. Edward slapped at them with his gloves. Was he claustrophobic, afraid of being coffined in snow? One stranded night was nothing. He and Hester had been snowed up for weeks, no car, no help, no neighbour for five miles. That was claustrophobic. Hemmed in by his mother, her face pale at every window, her shadow black at every door. Winters half a year long, when Edward would be basking in the sunshine, deepening his tan from October through to March.

‘You said Elsdon wasn't far off. Couldn't we get out and walk there? Get some help or something? Put up for the night?'

‘Out of the question. It's at least three miles away. The only thing I could do is try and reach Eastbrook Farm. That's only half a mile or so. The farmer there's related to the Bertrams and quite a decent chap. I ought to see the house lights if I strike straight across these moors. It's madness to try in these conditions, but …' Lyn shrugged. No more crazy than risking his neck on the roads.

‘Do you want me to … er … come with you?'

‘No, you stay put.' Edward had property to live for, two houses to tie him down, deeds to sign, repairs to put in hand, lawsuits to fight and win. Edward couldn't perish.

‘You won't be … too long, then will you?'

Fatuous question. How could he not be long, when every step was a fight against the elements?

‘No, I shouldn't think so.'

‘Will you be … all right?'

‘Of course.' He almost welcomed acting irresponsibly, doing something reckless. It stopped him thinking, counting up his losses.

‘Well, take my gloves, at least.'

Lyn slipped them on. They were far too large for him, turned his hands into another man's—long-fingered and broad-palmed. He felt a child again, boating about in his father's size eleven Wellingtons, boots cold and dead as Thomas was himself. Edward's gloves were chill against his fingers, the suede clammy from the snow. They wouldn't keep him warm, but they were Edward's talisman, his feeble contribution to their rescue.

‘Won't be long,' he fibbed again. Time meant nothing, anyway. He had the rest of his life to waste, or chuck away. He longed to plunge into the snow and be snuffed out like a candle. He realised suddenly that life and death were equal for him now. The boundaries between them had been blurred like those between road and moorland, snow and sky. Edward had no choice. Edward had to survive as householder and heir, whereas he himself had renounced all possessions like the monk Llewelyn, cut all ties.

He stepped into the snowstorm. Cold clawed at his face, the wind rushed for all his weak spots—up wrists and trouser-legs, down neck and into ears. He turned his collar up, used his hands like a blind man, feeling for the hedge, tap-tapping along it until he reached a gate. If it was reckless to get out at all, then it was still more madcap to step off the road and strike across a moorland, when he had neither torch nor compass. Everything looked different in the snow, and this was territory he hardly knew. He turned to look back at the car, its yellow lights still shining faint behind him. It looked absurdly small and stupid, broken-backed and stranded. The next time he looked, even the lights had been swallowed up in darkness. He was alone now with the night.

Every thought, every muscle, was centred on the yard of snow in front

of him, feeling for traps beneath it—bog, boulders, sudden mounds or dips. He had to battle against the wind, keep trudging on, however harsh the weather. Cold and Dark were giant figures striding on either side of him, towering over the landscape. He groped towards what he hoped was east. The snow cast a ghostly glow around him, fudging forms and outlines. Black and white had fused in treacherous grey. He stared towards the dead line of the horizon. There were no welcoming lights, no blur of a friendly house. The farm he remembered had perhaps struggled to its feet and lumbered away like a frightened beast at his approach.

The snow was so deep now, he could hardly free his feet. He suddenly realised he was stepping into the hollows of his own earlier footprints, only half concealed by freshly fallen snow. He must have walked in a circle, come back to where he started. It was madness to go on. He had got nowhere at all, so far, and Edward would be panicking. Best that they stayed together this one last night, before they parted for ever in the morning.

He flailed round, struck out for what he remembered as the track back to the road, tried to follow his footprints which were swiftly disappearing. The soft sheen from the snow showed him only wastes of more snow. Supposing he were lost—never found the road? Every time he raised his head, freezing flakes smote against his eyes, fell cold and stinging on his lips. The simplest action such as putting one foot in front of the other, or trying to stand straight against the wind, had become feats of endurance. Little point in shouting out for help. Edward was sitting deaf behind the iced and blinded windows of the car, every human creature safe indoors. It must be long past supper time—cold turkey and hot punch, sherry trifles, jellies. He and Hester had eaten bread and milk on Christmas night. The chicken carcass had to last all week for soups and stew-ups. He would have welcomed bread and milk now, snatched at a dry crust. The mouthful or two of ham he had forced down at lunchtime was only a grumble in his gut.

He groped a few steps forward. The road they had been on ran south and east. He must will himself that way, find the car again. He stumbled into a ditch and out of it. Didn't remember a ditch. He stopped—heard a cry shatter the darkness like a stone thrown in a pool. A rabbit caught by a fox, perhaps. Somewhere there were creatures as cold and hungry as he was—voles, badgers, birds huddled in the bare and shivering trees, all waiting for God's mercy and a thaw

A black shape turned into a bush, tore and scratched his hands. How could he have lost his bearings in so short a time? The countryside looked alien as if he had wandered off the map and strayed into a foreign land.

He tried to walk faster—tripped and fell spreadeagled on the ground. His body felt damp and heavy like a boulder, a clumsy hulk with neither brain nor feeling. If he left it where it was, it would be buried with the stones and bushes around it. He let himself sink back, closed his eyes. His earlier elation had totally disappeared, swamped in sheer exhaustion. No point struggling any longer. He had learnt long ago you couldn't win against the elements—not up here—couldn't change the climate, switch the seasons. The whole scheme of things was merciless. Foxes pounced on rabbits, crows pecked out the eyes of new-born lambs, man shot roe-deer, God killed man. Everything ground you down—weather, nature, time. Best to submit. If he died, who cared?